THE PRICE SHE'LL PAY: For the secret she never knew she had...

by Cara Charles

  ‘Not one downcast eye from those sons a bitches.’

  Ike had a good mind to never set foot in that room because if he did, he’d pull out his revolver and execute each one of them. Ike’s heart was broken by their genocide. The ghosts of the children who spoke to Ike now would expect him to give them no quarter. The world of man, when they learned what unspeakable evil this regime had wrought in six short years, would expect nothing less. Ike had but one chance. That is what lay before him now. With wisdom prevailing across time, Ike hoped that the good in people never be held hostage by fear again.

  With difficulty and an out of place bit of amusement, the mirror he wanted to look in was so low he could not see his face. How fitting they were in a schoolhouse for this official ending of the greatest assault on the innocent.

  He smiled. He and his tiny guides with their powerful voices had reached an agreement.

  ‘Yes. I will do this for you the lost children, the lost children of the future, and the children who had survived.’

  Ike squatted and looked beyond his own reflection. He felt them looking back at him, smiling, and agreeing with the most important epiphany of his life. He smiled and thanked them for giving him courage. Ike imperceptibly nodded to them. At this moment, he was their most important voice, their only voice. He was their representative and the voice of the Free World. Ike felt his heart warm a bit. Ike’s face softened as he thought of his own children standing at a sink in a schoolhouse like this, thinking of their own lives and dreams to come. Those unseen little souls had restored his strength. He was ready. He would not return to the room, thereby refusing to dignify the Nazi surrender with his presence. One of the Russian Generals, Susloparov could sign the surrender documents. Ike sighed. He suddenly felt one hundred years younger.

  Ike stood up. He was ready for his towel.

  He’d noticed the American Corporal standing at the far end of the room when he entered the large bathroom, had snapped a British style salute. The blue and white tiled room with the long line of little sinks was immaculate, shining with sanitary radiance. Ike would be sure to share his appreciation with the Corporal and tell him so.

  Ike noticed the Corporal had been standing at the ready, with the hand towel on his bent forearm oddly without white gloves, anticipating his General’s needs.

  This fine boned Corporal took one tentative step forward, waiting on Ike to turn toward him. The time had come to perform his one humble duty.

  Ike noticed the man had delicate hands.

  The Corporal was shy keeping his eyes on his boots, and his head bowed in an unnecessarily humble act of respect.

  ‘He must play the piano. Poor fellow. Probably rousted off some mess line, made to hurry and spit shine the place for me and those dogs in there.’

  As Ike turned off the faucets, Kimirov the reserve Russian interpreter for General Susloparov who had introduced himself when his aides had tried to clear the latrine but Ike said ‘let him stay,’ quietly sidestepped to the door, and slowly turned the bolt.

  Ike froze. All this time, he’d avoided the fanatics. Now one had him. Ike straightened, his hands dripping water on the floor, thinking strategy.

  Kimirov put a finger to his lips to quiet Ike. From under his tunic, Kimirov produced a gun. Instead of pointing it at Ike, Kimirov held it at his side, held his other hand waist high, palm down, indicating ‘Ike should remain relaxed.’

  Ike slowly turned his back on the sinks to face Kimirov, so he could watch both men. Ike focused on Kimirov his stronger, main assailant. Peripherally, he saw the Corporal take one step toward them. Screaming for help would be pointless.

  “Corporal? Remain calm. What’s the meaning of this Sergeant Kimirov? Do you want to talk? I’ll talk to you. Believe me. You have my undivided attention.”

  Kimirov pointed.

  The Corporal tapped Ike on the shoulder.

  Ike flinched. The knife he expected never materialized. Ike stepped forward toward the stalls to get more space away from Kimirov and the Corporal. Ike’s instincts had just shifted. The Corporal was with Kimirov. He tried to get a glimpse of a knife as he searched in the tiny mirrors, but saw nothing. Maybe the Corporal was with him after all.

  He needed to see the Corporal’s eyes. The Corporal was taking off his cap, his forearm still presenting the towel. Long thick raven black hair tumbled to his shoulders. Ike was stunned. Standing before him was perhaps the most beautiful woman of African decent, he’d ever seen.

  Herta brought Ike’s forearms up, wrapped the towel around his wet hands, gently and slowly rubbed them dry while waiting for The General of the Free World, to speak.

  Herta was so excited, she spoke first, “Hello, General Eisenhower,” she said in elegant colonial British.

  Ike stood before her dumfounded, his mind racing to figure it out as the most beautiful, exotic woman he’d ever seen was sensually drying his hands. Ike was completely mesmerized by her beautiful sand colored, almond shaped eyes, her high cheekbones, her flawless skin, and her finely shaped nose, her full softly sculpted mouth.

  Knowing she had this affect on nearly every man she’d ever looked in the eye, Ike’s reaction was more than wonderful. Then she took the right hand of the man who would determine her fate, and shook it, her smile genuine and convincing.

  She allowed Ike to keep his hand in hers, knowing she’d captivated him.

  “Sorry for the subterfuge, General Eisenhower,” her words were like poetry to him.

  Behind Ike, Kimirov spoke.

  “General Eisenhower, sir? On the recommendation of my lost love Winifred Schmidt, executive secretary to the same General Wilhelm Keitel of the Western High Command at the OKW who is waiting for you in the other room, the very same Keitel whose very important secret revealing papers we have for your examination, we honor Fate and at great risk have come a very long way to seek this once in a lifetime audience with you. Because of Winifred Schmidt’s wishes for this meeting I rescued Herta here, less than a month ago shortly after the Russian invasion of Berlin. She was hidden by Keitel’s orders in the High Command’s secret brothel near Ravensbruck. Those German dogs that wait for you hold Herta in the highest strategic regard. To the point General, sir? We’d like to defect, precisely and specifically for her protection. Herta is a very important woman.”

  “There’s room on my plane.”

  General Eisenhower told her compelling beautiful face. He could feel himself bonding to her. Ike was unable to speak or move, held captive by her pleading face and her warm delicate hands, never wanting to let them go.

  As Herta watched Ike smile, reading his thoughts her incredible eyes lit up as he gently shook her hands.

  Ike had the feeling he was shaking the hands of a long lost African Queen. She was special. She spoke knowing she had to break his spell.

  “Pleasure, General Eisenhower. My original people gave me the name Nana Bubu, similar to your Mother Earth. My birth name is Ese. I’ve been known by many names of which you may be familiar. I will share them with you at another time. I was born in Ethiopia and I’ve lived primarily in the Southern Semitic Areas, including Egypt and the Sudan. A few Germans, including General Keitel now know me by Field Marshall Rommel's pet name for me. “Herta” which means “of the Earth” in German folklore. When Rommel was implicated in the plot to kill Hitler, he tried to get word to Dr. Marino Castellucci, my mentor and colleague, an elderly Italian archaeology professor and I, we were to run from the Gestapo, but Rommel’s letter was intercepted. Once we were in Berlin being interrogated, Rommel was able to get word to me, through Winifred. Rommel sent you a letter explaining who Dr. Castellucci believed I was. And on the strength of Rommel’s beliefs that developed during our time together in the Desert, his letter explains why I should defect only to the Americans. You can easily retrieve Rommel’s letter as Allied Commander, because I have the account number. It is in Credit Bank Suisse in Zurich, account number 01051917. Through dearest Winifred, Ivan and I have vital documen
ts from the OKW and Ravensbruck with us, that we’d like you to read, which support our claim. I must be taken to America with Sergeant Kimirov. Sergeant Kimirov is entirely responsible for my life. Winifred never returned to our hiding place in bomb damaged Berlin. She’s been lost to us, a month now. We think she was drowned in German’s flooding of their train stations when the Russians were invading the city from the East, again. The last we heard, Winifred was protecting a little boy soldier she’d been feeding who would not leave his post.”

  “Alright. An amazing story of courage involving all three of you, especially Miss Schmidt,” Ike heard himself say, as he noticed the long small scar that looked like a burn that ran up Herta’s wrist, and disappeared into her sleeve.

  “May I get Keitel’s briefcase for you, sir?” Kimirov said behind him.

  “Yes of course, Kimirov.”

  Ike heard himself sigh in relief, “You know, if I’d had a side arm on me, I would have tried to protect myself.”

  “Yes, sir. We are ever thankful for small miracles,” Ivan sighed.

  Ivan still pointing the gun, in case the General went for the door entered the last stall, retrieving a polished briefcase. Ivan offered it to Ike, but Ike didn’t turn loose of her.

  “General. It is important you read these papers before you resume your ceremony otherwise, we’ll be lost in the commotion, and Ivan will have to leave with his General, Susloparov.” Herta said now relaxed by Ike’s kind face.

  Ike reluctantly turns her loose to follow Kimirov into the stall.

  “Yes, of course. You’ve taken great risks to come here, hoping I’d give you the chance to state your case. Your papers will have my full attention, now. Excuse me, Miss Herta.”

  Politely Ivan Kimirov guided the General toward a seat in a stall. The briefcase was open, the typewritten papers and carbon copies waited to be read.

  “Thank you General, for your remarkable indulgence,” Ivan bowed.

  Ivan wiped the sweat from his brow, put the gun under his tunic, and exhaled as General Eisenhower took a seat in the tiny stall.

  Herta and Ivan looked at each other as they watched the General read.

  IT TOOK FIVE MINUTES to read enough of the documents to have the General of the Free World look at Herta in a whole new light. Her very air seemed to corroborate the Ravensbruck doctors’ extraordinary assumption. Leaving the stall, Ike shook the amazement from his burdened mind. Ike bowed slightly as he took her hand again.

  “Someday science will be able to develop a better hypothesis with advances in genetics. Their theories could be provable. Verifiable. You could be hunted and worse as we’ve seen.”

  “Someday soon, General. Ravensbruck worked hard on genetics. My hair, tissue, and blood samples and a tooth are still there. They took pints of blood too. Someone will keep that hair sample and tooth, to someday prove the old rumors.”

  She showed him the growing in bald patch at the nape of her neck and her missing second molar.

  “Hair follicles remain forever they said, and maybe the root inside a tooth. It was inhumane what the Germans were doing in the name of scientific advancement. Persuade your government to taboo the science for decades, please. Thank you for taking this leap of faith, in accepting my story.”

  “A leap of faith is what you are. Asylum granted. You’ll both come back to England. I’ll call my man Charles now to arrange it. Will you allow me to call him?”

  “We have your solemn word, you’ll protect her anonymity for your lifetime?” Ivan asks.

  “Ivan! Forgive him General. He’s an anxious Russian.”

  “I want the General to understand the commitment he’s making,” Ivan reasons.

  “Kimirov? Preservation is one of the principles for which this war was fought. It is my honor to protect you Herta, for as long as you want the United States to protect you.”

  Herta shook her head.

  “No, General. You do misunderstand. You alone must take on the task. Politics change, attitudes change. I’ve been the pawn of politics and governments. I can’t ever be the pawn of politics again. Many wars and many lives have been lost trying to find me.”

  “Charles Larsen is the only man I need to include in our arrangement, Miss Herta. You will need someone young, and morally dedicated to carry on your protection and anticipating the advancement of science, you will only be in more danger as that happens. Agreed? I’d trust Charles with my life, if that is of any comfort to you.”

  “A great comfort, my only comfort. Then you may call your man.”

  Ivan opened the door. Ike called out, “Charles? Would you come here please?”

  “Coming sir,” First Lt. Charles Larsen said.

  Herta kissed Ike hard on the cheek.

  “Thank you for our lives. I just wish Winnie had lived to see her plan succeed so well.”

  Ivan broke down and cried.

  “You loved Miss Schmidt deeply didn’t you son?”

  Ike put a hand on Ivan’s shoulder.

  “Winifred Schmidt lives on through the both of you. Honor her well, won’t you?”

  Ivan nodded unable to speak.

  Herta kissed Ike again.

  “This one is from dear brave Winnie. Why General you’re blushing?”

  “I’m proud to say affirmative,” Ike said and laughed as a crimson tide bloomed on his cheeks.

  CHAPTER FOUR — THE NATIONAL ARCHIVES, COLLEGE PARK, MD.

  OFFICE OF THE SUPERVISOR

  A day earlier

  1630, 16 DECEMBER

  MARIE, SHIRLEY CRONKITE’S ASSISTANT ushered twenty-four year old Sean Rooney into Shirley’s office decorated to the hilt with holiday knickknacks and a bag of knitting. The extra chairs meant he was going to be grilled by the Standards Committee.

  “They’ll be with you in a minute,” Marie said. She shook her head then gave him a ‘what a waste’ look, as she closed door.

  Sweat rolled down his back, and rolled into his eyes. Usually, Sean loved the sting of primal workout sweat or good sex sweat. But this was ‘fear of one’s own death’ sweat, an instinctive response to an uncertain survival. Sean wiped his face with the lining of his jacket.

  ‘You’re pathetic. Even your eye lids are sweating.’

  FIFTEEN MINUTES he’d been waiting now. As one of the drive-through generation, Sean couldn’t wait for long.

  Any second he’d say, ‘fuck it’ and walk out. ‘Screw these head games.’

  He’d been called in on his day off. That could only mean one thing. Sean hadn’t done anything illegal. Suspicion was the culture of their workplace. They always had their suspicions.

  Sean’s anger grew as he listened to his anxious breathing, full of sighs and self-loathing. Deep breaths to center himself were useless. He racked his brain, searching for what he was going to say in his pointless defense. He shifted through alternatives of where he’d go next.

  ‘If they had openings. Why are there so damn many clocks in here?’

  All that ticking bore into his head shouting, “Stu-pid, stu-pid, stu-pid.”

  Sean frequently told Shirley ‘little white lies.’ But he was good at his work. She’d told him enough times. He was a shift supervisor for God’s sake. When the Obama White House campaign mission to declassify reams of old docs had cooled, that’s when it began, when he had nothing to do.

  He called in sick after long holiday weekends. He performed well beyond his assigned work capacity, so he rationalized. It was OK to slack sometimes, especially with their illogical assignment completion schedules. Then when the third slow-down came, the long lunch hours began. Easy. Since he was his own supervisor.

  Sometimes, Sean wouldn’t return from lunch. He’d clocked out, saving precious budget money. But when the ‘Big Alphabet Gov’ agencies, the BAGS he called them, went to check on what had been released to the Freedom of Information website, and discovered he was behind in their particular requisitions, they freaked. Again.

  Sean had underestimated their power.
He wasn’t behind much and could catch up in less than a day, even work off the clock.

  ‘So what was the big deal? The Ivy League Management dicks brand of fun was throwing their weight around.’

  Sean had been a brilliant archivist and risen through the ranks so quickly he considered himself invincible. True he was their best, he took great pride in his work, and he had an exceptional memory. He was fast, and machine-like in his accuracy, and because of his skills, he’d been given the most sensitive work of his division, The Berlin Archives. When the declassifying had been slowed again by order of the Obama White House, Sean cruised too. After months of this schizophrenia, the pressure to declassify reams of certain documents would be on again.

  Sean had heard those young Ivy League administration geeks were often briefed by the old intelligence pros, on just what was still too sensitive to be released to FOIA, the Freedom of Information Act website.

  The Old School Intel Pros called in past Presidents like Clinton, Carter, and Vice President Gore to convince those making these decisions to see it their way. The “Three Amigos,” the team of old pros called them were quite convincing.

  John, his friend and fellow supervisor of the night shift warned Sean, ‘the ‘BAGS’ had complained about his backlog.’ Sean worked like hell to catch up and vowed never to think outside the box again. He hated the pressure. When he was nearly finished with his backlog, working with a bad chest cold, the need to take a real sick day due to a high fever extended the Thanksgiving holiday. That was the last straw, he guessed. Now it was rumored, the BAGS were asking for the resignation of his aging supervisor and lifelong Civil Servant, Shirley Cronkite.